


Return to Sender

by who_la_hoop



Category: Pet Shop of Horrors
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:12:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/who_la_hoop/pseuds/who_la_hoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, all it takes is an insult or two to get the right results. (In which Leon finds satisfaction in pen and ink, D learns the true meaning of irritation, and Chris gets entirely the wrong idea about the efficacy of USPS.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return to Sender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cease/gifts).



> Set after vol.10 of the original manga; no mention of the Tokyo sequel.
> 
> Happy Yuletide to Cease, my recipient! I hope you enjoy this little story ♥

Leon looked down at his plan of action and felt pretty smug. Done and dusted in under ten minutes. Take _that_ , Jill. She’d offered to help him, but he couldn’t see why he needed help. It wasn’t difficult; in fact, he’d had all the points pretty much covered in his head even before he’d sat down with pen and paper. He hadn’t even needed a beer to inspire him.

He read it through once more just to double-check it was as good a plan as he thought it was:

1\. Find that motherfucker D.  
2\. Punch his head in.  
3\. Hand him Chris’s drawing.  
4\. Punch his head in.  
5\. Etc.

Leon nodded. Yep, sounded pretty good to him. A little light on detail, maybe, but the essentials were all there. The only thing that had caused him pause for thought had been the punching – and that was just because he hadn’t been able to decide exactly _when_ to punch D’s head in. But happily inspiration had struck with the welcome thought that there was no limit for punching, and therefore no good reason why he couldn’t punch the silly sonofabitch twice.

Leon threw down his pen in victory and cracked open a beer, picking up the TV remote and channel surfing until he found something that looked shit, but was blessed by a babe with huge jugs and a too-tight tee. He had the urge to call Jill to crow about his plan, but he managed to resist – something told him that she’d just rain on his parade, and he was happy to stay ignorant and cheerful right now.

Three beers later, he decided that the list was missing something vital: a signature. He scrawled it large and grinned wide. There. It was no longer a plan of action: it was a _promise_. A contract. He was really looking forward to carrying it out. Particularly points two and four.

Of course, he had no idea how he’d manage to swing point five – or ‘etc’, as he’d cunningly described it.

When it came to ‘etc’, he didn’t have a fucking clue where to start.

But, Leon thought optimistically, reaching for another beer, maybe ‘etc’ would take care of itself, once he’d applied the beatings.

***

When Leon had left the hospital and realized that D had gone – moved on to bother some other city and annoy some other unlucky bastard – he’d decided that that was pretty much that. The whole thing with D had been a huge, freaky trip, and it was better for his blood pressure that he just go back to how things were before he’d met him: hanging out with the guys, ogling babes and bringing down criminals. There had to be a better way to spend his off days than drinking tea and being insulted by a dude in a dress.

Later that afternoon – Jill had threatened to carry him bodily back to his apartment if he dared show up to work that day – he’d cracked open a beer and . . .

What the hell had he _done_ with himself before he’d met D? He’d busted his ass off at work, and he’d spent more time alone with _Playboy_ than he’d ever spent with any real-live woman.

He couldn’t even blame the way his stomach had suddenly fallen then, as if he’d dropped two dozen storeys in an elevator too fast, on missing Chris. _Sure_ he missed him. His brother was cool. But Chris would do better with his sisters, with his uncle and aunt, than in Leon’s shitty apartment, or even in D’s good – but odd – care. And it wasn’t as if he couldn’t call him, or go visit.

But what he missed – missed already, even though D was barely gone – was . . . was . . .

Hell. D was _family_. Leon couldn’t quite get a grip on what sort of family – every family was a little fucked up, but a family with D in it was one that was so fucked up it was off this planet and flying ( _flying in the clouds and boarding a ship to the moon_ , his brain helpfully told him). But it couldn’t be helped. D was his family – sort of – and that meant that now he’d fucked up (because what else was running away like some sort of pussy than fucking up?) Leon would have to fix things. Which, in this case, meant going after D, seizing him by his girlie collar, and dragging his ass back to where he belonged: namely, in the shop, surrounded by his creepy animal-people, and eating sweets until it made Leon’s teeth ache in sympathy.

End of.

Once Leon had realized that, the only question left was _how_ to do it – hence the plan of action. The plan which now, in the cold light of day, after too many beers, was looking increasingly crappy.

Maybe, Leon thought gloomily, slinging on his coat and heading out for coffee and doughnuts, he’d have to enlist Jill’s help after all.

***

After a month of keeping an ear out for crazy animal attacks across the globe – _Jill’s bright idea, as if Leon himself couldn’t have thought of that, huh!_ – Leon had just about had enough. Either D was laying low, or he was . . . he was on the moon, laying low. Or he’d changed his ways and was now a model citizen.

There was no _way_ D had changed his ways and was now a model citizen, Leon decided. And he didn't feel like thinking about the moon thing, for the good of his mental health. Either way, he was getting antsy. The Chief had said he could take some time off – though not quite that politely – but Leon didn’t feel like traipsing round every single Chinatown across the globe, like some kind of idiot. Besides, what if the count had gone to China? Leon had a pretty high opinion of his abilities as a detective, but some things were just impossible. No, Leon decided, he was just going to stay put.

Staying put sure as hell didn’t mean giving up, though. Leon had a duty to that idiot – a drawing to return, and an ass-kicking to administer.

What he needed was a better plan of action, that was all.

It was a shame he couldn't think of one.

***

"I'm sorry, sir," the counter clerk said apologetically, pushing the envelope back at him. "But are you certain this is the correct address?"

Leon scowled at the man - mostly because he felt like the biggest moron in the history of the world. "It'll get there," he said tersely. "I just wanna send it, okay?"

"I'm so sorry, sir," the counter clerk insisted, taking up the letter that Leon had shoved at him and sliding it equally firmly back again. "It's our regulations. We can't accept any mail without full address details."

Leon took up the letter with bad grace and left. He paused on the sidewalk outside, staring at the envelope.

 _Count D. China._

This was all Chris's fault. Leon had called to see how his kid brother was, and Chris had asked how the _Count_ was, and when Leon had admitted that he didn't have a clue, Chris had said - as if it was an entirely reasonable thing to say - "Why don't you write to him?" According to the kid, if letters addressed to Santa made their way to the bearded dude, then a letter addressed to Count D would work just as well.

Leon hadn't felt like explaining why letters made it safely to Santa, because if he thought about it too hard then "Count D, Flying Ship, In the Vicinity of the Moon" sounded just as plausible as "Santa Claus, The North Pole" - ie. he was fucking crazy and there was no hope for him. Instead, he'd written the letter, under Chris's guidance (Count! Where are you? Come back, we miss you! Love Chris and Leon), and then, when he'd put the phone down, had torn that up and substituted it with: D, you motherfucker, come back and explain yourself before I follow you and drag your ass into jail. L.

The address had given him some difficulty, but he'd promised Chris he'd try, and since it didn't matter what the hell he put on the envelope, as whatever he put was bound to be wrong, he'd written 'China' as D's street address and left it at that.

Leon almost just dropped the letter in the mail box, but something perverse in him decided that, as he was out of the house on business that wasn't work-related, he might as well drop by the pet shop and leave it there, in the back room. Maybe, he thought, a rabid squirrel or a diseased pigeon would stop by and hand/paw/beak-deliver it to D himself, wherever the hell he was.

When he arrived at the site of the shop, he stopped, unsure whether or not to enter. He'd expected - or rather hoped - the place to be relet. Then he could just toss his letter in the trash and go back to work, sifting through the international reports in the hopes of finding something that just had to be D. But the outside of the shop was just the same - the busted gates swinging on their hinges in the mild breeze. It wasn't creepy, when Leon finally got up the courage to go inside, just plain depressing. A tramp must have been sleeping inside at some point, as there were empty bottles strewn about and dirty rags, and the place stank of wet dog. Feeling like an idiot, Leon pushed open the door that had led to the inside of the shop - the gardens and rooms and endless corridors - and found, once more, a small, dirty cupboard. Still, he left his letter there, after checking to make sure that no had seen him do it, and was careful to close the front door behind him as he left.

***

D didn't regret it.

When he woke each morning in the shop and opened for business, he reminded himself that he didn't regret it. There were some things he did regret, naturally: mostly he regretted the tears that had slid down his cheek as he'd pushed Leon out of paradise, and he hoped beyond all measure that his curtain of dark hair had prevented Leon from seeing them.

He didn't think he regretted them for the right reasons, though; certainly not the appropriate reasons. He cared little for the fact that Leon was human, and therefore to be hated - he regretted his tears merely for the fact that if Leon had seen them, then Leon knew that D had not willingly left him. Would rather, in fact, have kept Leon in the shop - have given up his roaming life and the vow of vengeance that was the only thing that was supposed to drive him onwards. Would have done _anything_ to keep Leon.

The idea that Leon might know D's desires - might reject him, or, worse, waste his life in trying to find him - was insupportable.

And so D didn't regret it.

He found it hard to remember that he didn't regret it, however, when the letters began to arrive.

***

There was something curiously freeing about writing to D, Leon thought, chewing on the lid of his pen and thinking what next to say. Kind of like writing a diary, only with more insults. He'd been doing it for a while now, leaving the letters in the shop whenever he had the chance. It was stupid, but doing it made him feel as if he was doing _something_ , rather than just sitting on his ass and moaning to Jill about what a stupid motherfucker D was - though he did plenty of that as well.

Besides, Leon thought, taking a swig of beer, D was never going to read the things, so he might as well spread himself a little. He almost considered buying a thesaurus, as he was beginning to run out of curse words.

***

D found that the more letters from Leon he read (they turned up most mornings, to his trepidation, rather dirtier, he suspected, than they'd originally been, as mouths and paws were not ideally suited to carrying such things), the more he . . . the more he didn't regret pushing Leon out of the ship. Leon was _vile_ and _insufferable_ and _bad-mannered_ and _appalling_ \- and it required half the animals in the shop to knock D down and sit on him before he remembered that he couldn't just go and give Leon a piece of his mind. He was, by his own rules, unable to ever go and give Leon a piece of his mind - or pour him tea, or bake him muffins, or do anything at all.

D felt, suddenly, as if there was a rock in his chest, pressing down on his heart every time he took a breath.

***

"Did he write back yet?"

Leon winced at the hope in Chris' voice. "No, bro. Not yet."

There was a silence on the line. Then, Chris said: "I bet you didn't say anything nice."

Leon snorted. "Did you ever hear me say anything nice to D? He'd keel over in shock if I did that."

"But maybe that's why he hasn't come back," Chris said, his voice smaller. Then: "You should tell him that you miss him. Then he'll come back. Definitely."

The certainty in Chris's voice took Leon aback. "You mean, I should say that _you_ miss him, Chris. Right?"

"But you miss him too."

It wasn't a question. And - hideously - Leon remembered Jill, right after Chris had left, saying how the Count's smile had been fixed, forced. And thought that maybe the Count wasn't the only one who was putting on a show.

***

D,

Come back already, will you? The kid misses you. Fuck's sake, _I_ miss you. If you come back, I'll spend my entire paycheck on cake. Hell, I'll even promise to only beat you up a little, for running off like that. Deal?

Leon

***

"I am telephoning to complain about the mindless, foul abuse that I have been receiving."

"D? Fucking hell . . . D? Is that you?" Leon said. He sounded furious - and, curiously, that reassured D more than anything.

"Language, Mr. Detective," D said with a sniff. He put his free hand in his lap to stop it trembling; for the first time in his life, his nails were bitten to the quick. "I see you are no better mannered than when I---"

"Pushed me off a boat and ran away?"

D blinked, imagining his dear detective's irate face at the other end of the line. The secure, untraceable line, which he had - unaccountably - allowed to temporarily become traceable and identifiable. "Have you been drinking, Mr. Detective? A boat? I simply decided to relocate my shop, for the good of my health."

D could hear a sort of angry muttering - and he thought it best not to listen too closely. After a while, Leon pulled himself together. "When are you coming home?"

D warmed, through and through. Leon had said it in an angry, univiting sort of way, but . . . _home_. He sniffed, for Leon's benefit. "I have no immediate plans."

"Then tell me where the hell you are."

"So you can put the cuffs on me, my dear detective?"

"My dear detective, my ass. Spill, D. What's your address? Which country are you even in? China, right? How did you even get the fucking letters in the first place - pigeon post?"

D closed his eyes briefly and smiled, ever so slightly. "In a way."

"What the fuck does that mean? Listen, D---"

D hung up. He counted ten. When the phone rang again, he picked up with a pleasant: "Count D's pet shop."

"I have a delivery for you," came Leon's voice from the other end of the line. "A crateload of cream buns. I just need you to confirm your address."

"Of course," D said politely, and gave it.

"You're such a bastard," Leon said, after a brief silence. "You didn't even move _countries_. You absolute BASTARD."

"Mmmm," D agreed. It was nice with his eyes closed; that way he didn't have to look at the no-doubt enraged expression on Tet-chan's face for giving in to Leon so easily.

Leon snorted. Then there was such a long silence that D half-wondered if Leon was actually still on the other end of the line. But eventually he said, "Yo, D?"

"Yes?"

"I'll see you in a few hours, okay? Don't you fucking dare run away again."

D let out a breath he hadn't quite realized he'd been holding. "Very well, my dear detective," he said. And added, just because he couldn't resist having the last word: "Be sure not to forget the cream buns."

D put the phone down on Leon's loud swearing, feeling his smile tug at the corners of his mouth. If Leon felt even a fraction of what he was feeling, their reunion would be a delightful one indeed.

But he decided it would be wise to serve tea in his least-favourite china tea service, all the same.


End file.
